


Green Light

by andeverythingafter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Redemption, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:41:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24862474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andeverythingafter/pseuds/andeverythingafter
Summary: After the war, Draco Malfoy is lost. When he is taken in by the residents of 12 Grimmauld Place, he is forced to rethink everything he ever knew, confront his past, and change himself for the better.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	1. An Unexpected Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first post on AO3! Feel free to leave suggestions/comments.

Draco held his shaking hands beneath the rusty faucet, his mind wandering at once to his mother. Narcissa used to hold his hands in hers so that he could feel her heartbeat, could focus on a constant when it seemed his world was crumbling around him.

She did that a lot last year, but the chances of seeing her again, let alone feeling her heartbeat align with his, seemed slim-to-none.

The winter night burned at the corners of the window in the small bathroom. Draco’s eyes searched for cracks in the pale paint, a small amount of mildew between tiles, anything to tie him down to the present, to remind him of why he would never see his parents again.

After turning off the faucet, Draco sat on the edge of the bathtub, examining the grimy black bricks of the building next door. He knew he would have to go out, face them again, leave the comfort of the enclosed space, of the warm water beneath his fingernails, and all at once he brought himself to stand up.

The creaking of the bathroom door seemed to awaken a few of the room’s inhabitants, so Draco tiptoed quickly across the room to the first canopy bed in the ring and climbed in, as dust settled into the beams of moonlight that hung above his head. He pulled the sheets over his shoulders with a shiver, ignoring their harshness against his skin, when at once he heard,

“ _Draco_?”

A cold hand had gripped at his vocal cards, his chest seizing at his last breath. He fumbled with the wand beneath his pillow and sat up immediately.

“ _Lumos_.”

At the foot of his canopy bed stood a soft figure, draped in a deep, blood red cloak. The dim light from the end of Draco’s wand caught in the folds underneath his eyes. At once, Draco’s shoulders dropped, his knuckles regaining color as he loosened the grip on his wand.

“Neville?” Draco croaked.

“I thought it was you,” he said, gesturing to the bed’s foot as Draco nodded hesitantly. Neville took a seat and continued, “why are you here?”

Draco swallowed insistently, the tremor in his hands regaining strength, so much so that he had to concentrate on the end of his wand, the shaky light growing dimmer. Why was he there? He had no right to be. If anything, he should be locked away in Azkaban or buried beneath the crumbling facade of Hogwarts, not tucked away in the quiet corner of a hostel, hiding from the people he loved and feared most.

In the end, he settled on, “family troubles.”

Draco shivered again and Neville’s eyebrows knitted in what seemed like either confusion, pity, or apprehension. Draco gazed through the canopy to the window, hoping that time would stand still or that he would finally be ignored and left alone, but none of those events occurred.

Instead, Neville opened his mouth like he was going to speak but then promptly closed it again, perhaps biting back comments about Malfoy’s appearance or presence in a particularly un-Dark side location, and then began to speak again.

“You know you don’t need to stay here. There are other places to be.”

Draco nodded, refraining from letting go of the bitter, burning words on the tip of his tongue. He was so tired. His head twinged with frustration, he could survive on his own, yet the past few months had been nothing but dingy bathrooms, quivering hands, and dirty looks. He succumbed, easy to persuade when exhausted.

“Where?”

Neville searched his eyes very quickly, rubbed his hands on his cloak, and stood. “Is that all you have?”

He gestured to the small trunk of Draco’s on the ground, the pair of dark, designer shoes with a hole forming in the left big toe, the cloak draped overtop the bedframe. Draco nodded quickly.

“And you’re having family troubles?”

Malfoy nodded once more.

“Come with me.”

—————————————

The reflection of the flickering streetlights glittered on the wet pavement. Malfoy followed at the back of Neville's shoes, constantly glancing over his shoulder, every echo of their footsteps sending his heart into his throat. The street looked familiar but Draco didn’t have the energy or patience to determine where he was, so he just followed. The heavy drizzle had soaked through his cloak and beneath his shirt and coat, slowly seeping beneath his skin and in-between his bones.

At last, Neville stopped and waved his wand in the middle of the street, between two houses labelled 11 and 13. Before his eyes, the two buildings distorted, making room for a distinct building twelve. With one last glance over his shoulder, Neville unlocked the deadbolts and gestured for Malfoy to follow him through the door.

The first thing that hit him was the mustiness, then the lingering scent of coffee. Malfoy dragged his trunk through the door and looked up at the high ceilings of the establishment, his eyes skimming over the empty kitchen, the quiet dining room.

“Where are we?” Draco asked.

Neville looked around and put a finger to his lips, pulling off the thick cloak around his shoulders. “12 Grimmauld Place. Follow me up to your room, for now.”

Draco opened his mouth in protest and then promptly closed it, picking up the trunk and following Neville up the stairs. Malfoy’s eyes wandered to the enumerable amount of doors, all varying in color, size, and security. After about 10 flights, they made it to the second-to-last floor. Neville led the way to the end of the hallway and into a small room with two windows.

“Here’s your room. Bathroom is the second door on your left, you share it with others. I’ll explain more details in the morning, or someone else will. For now, get some rest.”

Neville glanced at Malfoy and moved to leave when the latter croaked, “Longbottom?”

He wheeled around.

Draco had frozen in his place, unable to vocalize his thanks. He had seen those same eyes once before, at Malfoy Manor in the midst of the imperious curse. His stomach dropped and he gripped on to the bedframe a bit more tightly, ice pulsing through his veins. He managed to give a small, almost imperceptible nod, and Neville understood and nodded in return.

And then Draco was left to himself, the whirring of the ceiling fan lulling him to sleep, his cloak and shoes still on.


	2. An Order From the Order

Draco awoke with a horrible taste in his mouth and a dull pounding in his head. He glanced around the room and noticed the warm glow of the evening sun outside his window. To the right of his bed, near the door, lay a few plates of bread and a mug of tea covered with a layer of film.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and then removed his shoes, slowly and carefully. His cloak was damp, with last night’s rain or sweat he could not tell, and the sheets seemed to be wet, too, so he stripped them off the bed and piled them in the corner.

He peeled off his cloak and other outer layers and used his wand to heat them up and dry them out on the floor. Pulling on a clean pair of slacks from his trunk, he decided to leave the room to brush his teeth.

With a quick glance down the hallway, he rushed to the second door on the left, in fear of running into someone like- “Bloody Hell!”

Draco immediately shut the door to the bathroom where a tall, gangly redhead stood at the sink, shaving his face in the mirror. He hadn’t expected to run into someone, let alone someone who was so clearly a _Weasley_.

Other than Neville the previous evening, Draco had successfully avoided all of his other Hogwarts classmates after the war, and the vision of the blazing red hair in the mirror had sent his heart rate pulsing into oblivion. Suddenly, his room was steaming hot and he tugged helplessly at the neckline of his cashmere jumper, the expensive fabric threatening to tighten its grip around his neck.

A soft knock at the door grounded Malfoy, his mind reverting back to the time of day, the strange, Weasley-ridden building he was now staying in, the dull throbbing of his head.

“Yes?”

His voice didn’t sound like his own. A small, red-headed woman walked in to the room and her eyes widened, stepping quickly over the plates of bread at her feet. She scanned the floor quickly and then looked up at Draco, an unreadable expression on her face.

“Well, Mr. Malfoy, we all thought you were dead in here!”

A brief pause.

“What time is it?”

Mrs. Weasley crossed her arms. “I think the more appropriate question would be _what day is it?_ , but it is almost dinnertime on October the eighth.”

And like a ton of bricks, her expression hit him square in the chest, the same sneer she had given to him in passing in the corridors of Hogwarts, before she mourned the death of her son and called his aunt a bitch in front of the student body. He was suddenly aware of how horrid he smelled, the effect of internal rot spreading beyond the skin.

“Now,” Mrs. Weasley continued, “your stay is not free. You’d best clean up and make it downstairs to the kitchen within the hour to get some work done prior to dinner.”

Draco nodded as Mrs. Weasley stepped back over the dirty dishes on the floor, and his eyes fell to his trunk on the ground.

“Oh, and Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco met her sharp eyes.

“Clean this mess up, too.”

———————————————

After a long shower and a lot of self-reassurance, Draco made his way down the exhaustive staircase to the kitchen. He hesitated to step across the threshold, unsure of who he would find on the other side, and was greeted by the frowning faces of a tall, dark man in glittering blue robes and two redheaded adults he assumed were the Weasleys.

Immediately, Draco froze to the unpolished floor. “Mr. Malfoy?”

The depths of the blue-robed wizard’s resonant voice held the echoes of ripping flesh and screams off of the Great Hall’s walls, causing Draco to sway on the spot. Just as fast, Mr. Weasley came to his side, supporting his weight into a wobbly chair.

“Sit down, sit down. It’s alright.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyebrows were furrowed with what he thought was pity, Mr. Weasley stared at him nervously, and the dark wizard who he assumed was Kingsley Shacklebolt stood across the room, gazing at the counter with indifference. Draco shook his head, and Mrs. Weasley hurried to the kitchen to get him some more bread.

Mr. Weasley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We need to ask you a few questions, alright?”

Draco swallowed the dryness in his throat. “Yes.”

Mr. Shacklebolt moved forward, his presence like a wall in the middle of the dining room. “I’m Kingsley Shacklebolt, with the Ministry of Magic, and we need to ask you some preventative questions. Are you still involved with, or do you have any connection to, the remaining Death Eaters?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

A double-edged sword. Was he really sure about anything? How could he be sure that his mother wouldn’t send an owl to his last known address, who would be sent to follow Neville? How could he be sure that they wouldn’t come after him, after he had been in hiding for months, thinking he would go back to the other side and just return to the manor?

But on the other hand, was he really sure about _this_? Being “saved” by those he had sworn to be enemies and giving up on his own individual fight so easily? Leaving behind those who he thought he trusted, including his own parents, to live in a disappearing house with the _Weasleys_?

He decided that he had never been more sure about anything in his life. He needed to stop running, to stop resisting, to submit to the help he had been offered. The last time he hadn’t taken help, he had fallen apart.

He wasn’t used to being off his game.

“I’m sure.”

Shacklebolt did not look convinced. His eyes flickered to Mr. Weasley, who stared back at him, frowning. Mrs. Weasley forced a plate of warm bread and margarine into Draco’s hand, and he took a few small bites.

“Why were you at the hostel?”

“I have not been home in a long time.”

“I do not believe you answered my question, Mr. Malfoy.” Draco’s stomach dropped and Shacklebolt moved closer. “ _Why_ were you away from home?” he beckoned.

“I have been having family troubles,” Draco admitted, his face getting warm.

“What kind of family troubles?”

“Does it matter?” Draco hissed.

The bitter words rolled off his tongue before he could stop them, and then the blue-robed wizard’s fists were on the dining room table, his booming voice cracking through Draco’s skull like lightning. The latter nearly dropped his plate of bread.

“You _will_ watch your words, Mr. Malfoy, or we will send you back out to the streets where you belong. Now, I will repeat my question one last time, and you will answer it truthfully. What family troubles brought you to the hostel?”

Draco’s dull, throbbing headache pulsed stronger. He had to give it up, he was caught, he had to let his guard down. But some part of him wanted to spit venom at the tall, dark wizard, to flame him with his sharp, cutting words and leave in spite of himself. He decided on an icy compromise. “I no longer agree with them, and that’s all I will say about the matter. Can I go lay down now?”

Shacklebolt inhaled quickly, but Mr. Weasley interjected before more could be said. “Kingsley, I think that’s enough for us.”

“Arthur, is this not the same kid who hugged Voldemort, who crossed to the dark side, who spat dirty names at your children and who, by association, killed one of your sons? I cannot be the only one worried about him.”

Mr. Weasley glanced over at Draco, whittling away to nothing, dark rings around his eyes, barely able to sit up straight. Then he looked to Mrs. Weasley, who stood, with the slightest trace of concern on her face.

“We believe we can trust him this time. That’s the least we can do.”

Shacklebolt’s fists clenched and then relaxed, falling to his side. Draco’s stomach growled and the three adults looked to him in surprise, so he picked up the piece of bread, neck warm.

“Well,” Arthur began, “I guess we can get on with the second part of this meeting.”

Mr. Shacklebolt took over. “When you stay here, you are a part of the Order.”

Draco pursed his lips. “The Order of the Phoenix?”

The blue-robed wizard nodded. “And you do not stay here for free. Everyone staying here needs to do their fair share of work for us, in exchange for free lodging, meals, and protection. Am I clear?”

Draco nodded.

“Good,” Kingsley continued, “Your work for us will be closely related to your past. Each day, you must manually go through a stack of wizarding profiles of those we believe to be associated with the dark arts or the Death Eaters. Using a clean piece of parchment for each wizard, you must tell us everything you know about them, down to the finest details. Is that understood?”

He nodded once more.

“Alright. After each stack of profiles, you will be done for the day, and you can do what you want for the rest of it, within the house. As soon as you get stronger, or are ready to leave, you can, but you must check with us first. Do we make ourselves clear?”

“Yes sir.”

The adults cast nervous glances at each other and Draco felt his heart jump into his throat. What ever happened to the times when his elders would look upon him with hope or contempt? He was no longer loved, it was that simple. By his mother, maybe, but only on the off chance she was away from his father. He was not loved, and he would never be loved again. He just had to learn how to live in the shadows, to turn away from the attention he craved.

But he held the room’s attention for one more moment.

“Mr. Shacklebolt?”

The blue-robed wizard turned to him.

“Where am I?”

The adults exchanged glances again. “12 Grimmauld Place,” Arthur hesitated, “the home of Harry Potter.”


	3. A Tree Fights Back

For the next few days, Draco followed the same routine. He would awaken early, before the sun came up, to a particularly dark and painful nightmare, and creep downstairs. He would finish his paperwork prior to breakfast and then slink back upstairs, using the bathroom only during mealtimes and living off of Mrs. Weasley’s bread and the tea left outside the door by the house elf.

He knew that he was only here to give the Order information, but he didn’t mind as long as he could get back on his feet. He managed to avoid all of the residents of the house for days.

On the fifth day of his residency, however, he broke his streak.

As usual, he awoke before dawn, sweating and on the verge of screaming, and got dressed into a thick jumper and trousers by wand light. He then crept downstairs and scribbled through his paperwork.

The sun was just beginning to rise when he climbed carefully up the second flight of stairs and an emerald green door at the end of the hallway caught his eye.

Draco would never willingly compromise his dignity, especially now that he had mostly returned to his original state, but something about the passageway was imprinted in his mind. He was drawn to it like a moth to light, and moved soundlessly towards it. There was only one other door in that hall, and since he couldn’t see any of his peers rooming alone, he decided to take his chances.

He grasped the knob with a steady hand and the brass began to warm, molding around his palm and fitting his grip perfectly. A series of pops sounded along the doorframe, and it opened into a room with a small window and a floor-to-ceiling, hand-painted family tree.

Draco moved carefully across the dusty floors, past the Victorian furniture that looked as if it had been untouched for years, to the tree. His eyes moved from the top name, Salazar Slytherin, down the tree’s branches, taking in all of the familiar names, and at last, towards the very bottom, a very familiar drawing of a light-haired boy.

Draco shrunk down to his knees in front of the portrait the size of the palm of his hand. He stuck out his slender fingers and ran them over the series of carved grooves that made up his name. Just as he reached the branch that connected him and his father, a thick, needle-covered vine shot out of the wall and wrapped itself around his left arm.

Then there was piercing, white-hot heat and he was screaming, and he wasn’t sure if there was pounding at the door or if that was the sound of his heart trying to leave his chest, and darkness swam across his vision and then time seemed to stop.

———————

He opened his eyes to a bushy-haired witch and a taller, freckled witch standing above him with their wands raised and a small, wrinkly house elf. At once, he clutched his bleeding arm and gasped when his hand came away a deep shade of red. He couldn’t make out who was talking in the background; the sound of his aching arm seemed eager to drown them out.

“We pried it off as best as we could but you were unconscious for a while. We tried to open the door but Kreacher is the only one who can open it, other than you, so we had to find him. We did the best we could to heal some of the wounds. The pain should have lessened by now-“

Draco opened his mouth to respond but couldn’t say anything, for the prickly vine seemed to have wrapped itself around his throat, too. And then everything came crashing down at once when he realized who was in front of him.

“Granger?”

“Don’t act so surprised, Malfoy,” the taller witch next to her piped up. “You know this _is_ Harry’s house, right?”

He nodded, out of breath from sitting up, and pulled out the pillow beneath his head. He could have said anything at that moment, with the breath he had saved, but he said the first thing on his mind instead.

“Will I be alright?”

Ginny Weasley laughed heavily and Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Yes, you’ll be fine. I believe I cauterized the wounds effectively, my parents taught me that one, but the bleeding will not stop for a little while. These branches are only supposed to stun those who touch them, not puncture the skin. I have a few ideas as to why you are bleeding so much, but-“

Hermione paused, and Draco was incredibly grateful. He tried to meet her eyes but she could hardly look at him at all since she seemed preoccupied with the mural on the wall.

The last time he tried was a week or so ago, but he had lost so much blood in the process that by the time the shady healer from Knockturn Alley found him, he was nearly unconscious. The clean bandages that he replaced after each shower were ruined now, soaked in blood and torn to shreds from the thick thorns. Hermione had to have seen what was beneath them, his horrible handiwork against a canvas of pale, creamy skin.

He shuddered in pain and tried to pay attention to Ginny, who was whispering with Hermione closer to the mural this time.

“I mean, we cannot trust him, it’s that simple. He’s still the same, slimy git who’s people killed Fred. I could never forgive him.”

“Gin, he’s clearly not the same. The fact that he has not said anything horrible so far shows that. I cannot fully trust him, but I have to be flexible. I mean, he’s here. Is that not enough?”

A sigh. “No, especially not after what he said to you. I truly can’t believe you, Mione.”

Draco rose to his feet quickly but had to grab on to the lampshade closest to him. The two witches turned quickly from the mural to him, and he winced, trying to play it off like a smirk, dust hovering in the bits of sun that peaked through the curtains. Hermione watched him closely, as if at any moment he would attack them like the vines in the mural. “I assume only those on the Black family tree can enter this room?”

Ginny tilted her head in confusion and Hermione nodded, turning back to the tree.

“The Blacks and Kreacher, that is all. You are extremely lucky to have snuck into the room next to ours, otherwise you might have been worse off.”

Draco swayed but his eyes remained on Ginny, who glared at him beneath a cloud of hate and distrust. He could feel the sneer playing on his lips but he thought about how far from home he was, mentally and physically. He could not afford to mess things up.

Draco hesitated. “Well I’m glad you made it in time. I should get going.”

“Back up to your room where you can hide from all of us and your problems?” Ginny hissed.

At that moment, Draco realized that the two of them were complete opposites. It made sense that Ginny would never forgive him, no matter what he could do, say, or change. The mid-morning sun came in through the window, igniting her hair. She was all flame and fire, her aura ablaze. Draco was made of flint and steel, his sharp eyes cutting and cold, standing in the shadow of curtains. Ginny opened her mouth to say something; perhaps she had noticed his moment of clarity, but he didn’t wait around to find out.

He turned on his heel and left the room, doing his best to sprint up the staircase in the most quiet manner. Once he reached the door at the end of the hall, he promptly tore up the sleeves of an old white shirt and wrapped the scraps around his left arm, then fell back into bed, the bed frame shaking against the wall to the rhythm of his body.


	4. A Confrontation With a Weasley

Draco had been asleep for most of the day when someone knocked hard and clear on his door. He sat up in bed, heart pulsing, and threw off the top sheet.

“What?”

Harry and Ron entered Draco’s room. He thought of the last time he’d seen Ron (days ago, shaving in the bathroom mirror), but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Harry in person. His face was in the back pages of the Daily Prophet regularly, whether it was for his philanthropic work with young witches and wizards or classes he was teaching in London for adults interested in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Months ago, Draco would have never picked up a newspaper. It seemed like it was a little too late to start forming his own opinions, but he thought it was worth a try anyway.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t done much thinking about Potter and Weasley, so he met them with apprehension.

Harry scanned the room. “Hermione told us about your incident in the Black Family Tree Room this morning. We came to see your arm.”

Draco had rolled the sleeve of his grey jumper over the bandages and he held his arm close to his chest. “Leave me alone, Potter.”

Ron scoffed, rolling his eyes. “What did I tell you, Harry? Compliance isn’t in Malfoy’s vocabulary, unless it’s for the _Death Eaters_.”

Draco’s stomach rolled over, a nerve in his forehead twinging dangerously. What was he _really_ doing? No matter where he went, he would never be normal again. The Death Eaters thought he was incompetent and weak, those on the other side would always associate him with the Dark Mark, and most of his peers and teachers from Hogwarts resented him. To put it plainly, he would always be scum.

And now he was being scrutinized and picked apart by the two people he swore were his enemies: the kind of attention he truly hated.

Draco inhaled slowly. “You don’t know a thing about me, Weasley, so I would keep your mouth shut.”

“Don’t know a thing? Don’t know a _thing_?” Ron drew his wand and Draco stood quickly. “Your _slaves_ killed my brother, attacked my best friends, and destroyed Hogwarts. I’m not stupid Malfoy, I know a _monster_ when I see one!”

Draco drew his wand at the word _monster_ and Ron disarmed him straightaway, the piece of wood clattering to the floor behind him. He was at Malfoy Manor again, his father standing strong before him, shouting insults in the foyer. There were tears in his eyes as he moved to pick up his wand and he winced when his father raised his voice. _Faster, Draco!_ _How do you expect to fight when you move like a little boy?_

But those nights in the Manor were long gone and it was only Ron standing in front of him, not Lucius. The memory only lasted a split second, enough time for Draco to decide to hold up his hands in mock surrender and back against the bed frame. Flames danced on his tongue, lined his stomach, engulfed his brain. He began to speak when Harry stepped between the two.

“ _Enough_ ,” he beckoned, turning to Ron. “Ronald, out, _now_.”

“What the hell, Harry?”

Draco stood as still as he could, unable to escape. Harry’s glance towards his friend was dangerous.

“Drawing your wand was unnecessary and childish. It’s best if I did this alone.”

“But…he…” Ron stammered, his eyes flickering between Harry and Draco. His ears grew red as he stuffed his wand back into his pocket. “Fine.”

And with a slam of the door, he and Harry were alone in the room.

“Why-“

“Be quiet, Malfoy,” Harry ordered. “Pull up your sleeve.”

Draco’s headache worsened, the dull ache moving to one side of his skull, so he sat down on the bed. He knew it had to do with his arm and he knew he couldn’t hold on much longer without some kind of help, but he wanted to do it on his own.

How he would do it on his own, he had no idea. Each night he tried working with the potion kit he kept in the bottom of his trunk, each time failing and wasting more supplies. Harry watched as Draco’s eyes moved across the room to the trunk, and Draco knew that Harry could see how thin he had gotten, the sickly purple undertone in his skin.

 _I am sick,_ he kept reassuring himself, but he still couldn’t understand why he could just throw away his pride like this. To his surprise, he gingerly rolled up his sleeve.

The shirt strips that he had wrapped his arm in were soaked through with dark blood, but for some reason, Draco couldn’t look at them. A wave of nausea fell over him and he had to look away, prompting Harry to ask, quietly, “Can I?”

Draco nodded and Harry unwrapped the shirt sleeves. Harry’s carefulness was making him sick. This was his sworn enemy, the only person he wouldn’t allow himself to tolerate, but here Draco was, in his house, letting the bloke look at his _fucking arm_. He was going to pass out soon, he was sure.

“ _Bloody Hell,_ Malfoy,” Harry whispered, “what did you do to it?”

“None of your business, Potter,” Draco sneered, his senses coming back to him with the sharp pain of the open wounds, “now bugger off.”

“You honestly need to go to St. Mungo’s for this, or something. What did you use?”

“For what?”

Harry scoffed. “Come on, you’re smarter than that.”

“A knife, bottom of my trunk.”

Harry moved to the trunk and Draco’s head fell back against the wall. His arm seemed fine that morning but had taken a turn for the worse in the afternoon. It had to be infected, or he was clotting, because his vision became hazy, dark dots swimming in the corners of the room like flies on a window.

 _I need the help_ , he reminded himself again, but a part of him still wanted to pack up his trunk and leave, only to be found by another healer in the alley. Harry was touching _his things_ , his only possessions, but he couldn’t even stand up to stop him.

He felt helpless, being coddled by Potter and his band of goons, but realized he probably wouldn’t be well-off without them, so he tolerated the scrutiny for a while longer, trying to ignore the increased throbbing of his arm.

Harry pulled the dark, engraved knife from his trunk and rolled it over in his hands. “Where did you get this?”

“The Manor.”

“It has to be cursed,” Harry said, examining the carvings closely, “it’s the only reason you can’t heal those on your own.”

“It was sharp, I could get my hands on it, what can I say?”

“You need to stop doing this, and we need to get you some help.”

Draco sat up and gripped the post tightly. “I don’t _need_ anything, Potter, except some personal space.”

Harry stood and pocketed the knife, about to leave the room. There truly was something wrong about this whole situation. He _had_ to be delirious, or something, because the regular Draco would have never asked, “Why?”

Harry understood the bare question. He stood partially turned towards Draco with one foot out of the room and pulled his hands out of his pockets to cross his arms. A moment went by where nothing in the room moved, time sat like bubbles in amber. Then, at last, Harry opened his mouth.

“If you really didn’t want to change, you wouldn’t be here, you wouldn’t have let Ron win in a duel, and you certainly wouldn’t have done _that._ ”

Draco wanted to say something in return, something bitter and harsh, but he was so tired, so high-strung, so starved of attention that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. A twinge of pain shot through Draco’s arm and he shuddered. Harry eyed him nervously, moving out of the doorway and Draco’s line of vision.

From down the hallway, Harry said, “Let me see what we can do.”


	5. A Potion for Dreamless Sleep

That night, Draco finally mastered the potion for Dreamless Sleep.

He had been attempting to brew it at any free moment he had, granted he wasn’t delirious, writhing in pain, or running from the law. So he had had very few opportunities to do so.

Fortunately, his strange sleep schedule and chronic insomnia proved to be the perfect schedule for evading the residents of 12 Grimmauld Place successfully and getting lots of free time.

After his and Harry’s interaction that afternoon, Mrs. Weasley did her best to heal the infection in Draco’s wounds. Since the war, she had been spending time learning basic healing principles: how to seal sutures, clean and clear up cuts, and where to find the best, Pomfrey-level ointments. He figured that some residents of Harry’s home needed physical help, and St. Mungo’s was not the safest place to elude Death Eaters.

She told him that the wounds would not clear up perfectly and he would be left with scars, to which Malfoy thanked her and rushed her out of his room. She also said that there would be soreness for quite a while, hence why he was awake so late into the night.

But Draco would take a few late nights and some scars in exchange for the return of his senses and a bit more sanity any day.

He sat on the floor by the window, the purple potion glowing against the walls of the dark room. He only had three thin vials that would fit in the kit: perfect for about five hours of good sleep per vial. He made a mental note to search for a larger vessel downstairs in the morning, something that would go unnoticed if missing.

Draco packed away his materials and set the warm cauldron on the windowsill for it to stay during the night. He grabbed his toothbrush and opened the door to the hallway when he heard a scream.

He knew it was from one of the rooms on his floor. Nobody was awake this late, and this person could be really hurt. Besides, if he could help someone now, they would owe him a favor in the future.

There was one more scream, behind the first door up the stairs, and Draco tiptoed towards it and knocked softly.

“ _Leave us alone._ ”

Draco stood still for a beat. He willed himself to keep his mouth shut, to go back to his room and sleep until morning, but there was something about the scream: he knew it, he had lived it, he could fix it.

“I can help.”

There was muffled whispering on the other side of the door, and then the knob turned, leaving a very rumpled Harry standing at the door. “What do you want?”

“What happened?”

A quiet voice from the back of the room sounded. “It’s none of your business, so shove off.”

Ron sat up in bed, deep bags beneath his eyes. He gripped the blankets so that his knuckles were white, and his face shone in the dim light.

Their room was larger than his, but was much more lived-in. Smatterings of color covered the room, from the bright orange of the bedspreads to the blood-red curtains, and dozens of moving pictures waved at him from the walls and ceiling.

Compared to the dim, grey color of Draco’s room in the Manor, he may as well have lived in a dungeon.

“It’s dread, isn’t it?” Draco asked as he stood in the doorframe, so pale in the sliver of moonlight coming in from the window that he could have been an apparition. “Not so much the screaming, but the fact that you can’t do anything about it?”

Ron’s eyes shifted between Draco and Harry before they fell to his lap. “You’re making it worse.”

“I get them, too.”

He surprised himself again. Now, he was fully conscious, fed, and clean. He had slept a good amount. He was safe. But somehow, he wasn’t himself, and that was what scared him the most. Ron glanced at Harry, who made his way back to his bed and left Malfoy in the doorway. “So? Am I supposed to feel bad for you or something?” When Draco didn’t reply, Ron growled, “what are you scared of, mummy and daddy?”

Draco clenched his jaw, digging his nails into his palm. “I _was_ going to tell you that I made a potion for dreamless sleep, but clearly you want nothing to do with me.”

He made to leave when Ron said, “wait.”

Harry sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses, suddenly awake. “You mean to tell us that you brewed a highly advanced potion in your _room_?”

“Does that surprise you, Potter?”

“N-not-“ Harry hesitated, then came to a moment of clarity. “No, just the fact that you are willing to share it with us.”

Ron somehow looked more petrified than he had after his nightmare and Harry watched Malfoy like he was a rabid, encaged animal. Draco absentmindedly ran a hand over his forearm, trying to choose the correct words to say next. “I made more than I need, and I would hate for it to go to waste, that’s all.”

Ron and Harry exchanged glances and at last Harry nodded. “He’ll take it.”

—————————

“Ronald? Ronald? HELP!”

Draco awoke in a cold sweat, the last remaining bits of his nightmare hanging in the air around him. The moon shone bright from outside, and a cool breeze filtered in through his window. He checked his watch, which read 3:34 am. He could spend some more time sleeping, but the screaming was still fresh in his mind, so he sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“Somebody HELP!”

He was not imagining it. The voices were real. Draco instinctively sprung out of bed and pulled open the door, where he saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley rush into Harry’s and Ron’s room. The screaming had not yet ceased, it was all too familiar. It rang through his skull and sounded throughout his body.

Draco’s feet carried him to the doorway, where his mouth hung agape. Ron was seizing on the bed, blue in the face and foaming at the mouth. Mrs. Weasley stood over him, trying to pour a potion into his mouth that he wouldn’t take, and Mr. Weasley rifled through a small, leather bag at his side. Harry gripped Ron's hand.

Mrs. Weasley’s shrill voice shook as she spoke, “Why is he seizing so badly? Is it epilepsy?”

“He was poisoned.”

She turned with wide eyes to Draco, who stood like a wisp of smoke in the doorway of the room. Her hair framed her face as wildly as a lion’s mane and the glass vial of potion she held in her right hand cracked and broke, sending green liquid seeping into the bedspread.

“How do _you_ know?” She sneered.

Draco rushed to her side and lifted Ron’s head up, tilting it to one side. He turned to Mrs. Weasley. “I just do. You need a bezoar or the antidote to common poisons, I have both in my room. Hold his head like this and stay still.”

Draco rushed past Hermione, Ginny, and another dark-haired witch who were sprinting up the stairs and grabbed his potions kit from the room at the end of the hallway. At the bottom of the kit was a small, cloth bag containing a single bezoar.

For the first time in a while, maybe in his life, Draco was only focused on one thing: saving Ron. In doing so, he hoped to clear his name, because somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that it was _his_ potion that had poisoned him.

He hurried back to Mrs. Weasley and handed over the bezoar, which she forced into Ron’s mouth. Ron was still a bit pale but color spread across his face and he stopped seizing almost immediately. Draco remembered to breathe again when he saw Ron’s head lull to the other side in Mrs. Weasley’s arms, but then Harry’s hand was on his neck and he was up against the wall and it was even harder to breathe than before.

“What the _hell_ did you do to Ron?” Harry demanded.

Then Hermione was at Harry’s side, and so was Ginny and the dark-haired witch, and Mr. Weasley was gasping from the other side of the room, and Harry’s other hand was on his arm, his _left_ arm, and his vision was blurring at the edges.

“Nothing.” Draco croaked, his free arm trying to pry off Harry’s.

“You almost killed my best friend a second time, so I’ll ask you again. _What did you do to Ron_?” Harry was all red and his fingers tensed around Draco’s neck.

“I - did - _nothing_.” Draco insisted. He saw Ron begin to stir and the Weasley parents moved to his side. Harry looked back at them and then laughed maniacally.

“That was the wrong answer, Malfoy.” Harry let go of him for a split second and air moved through his lungs, but then Harry’s fist connected with his face and everything became dark.


	6. A Trial at 12 Grimmauld Place

Draco awoke to a dull murmuring above him, his eye sore and his cheek fused to the unforgiving floor. For the second time since he had arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place, he had fallen unconscious in front of his peers. That was two too many times.

“Then who could it have been?”

He recognized Hermione’s voice. “You honestly don’t see a change? He almost _thanked me_ for saving him, Harry.”

“Which is exactly the kind of trap he would lead us into,” Harry countered, his voice becoming a low rumble. “He comes back all kind and forgiving and then screws us over.”

“He’s clearly intelligent enough to carry it out, but I cannot see him doing it. At least, not after what he did to himself. You saw his arm. He wants out.”

“I’m not taking any chances after he tried to _kill_ Ron. What if that’s fake too?”

Draco turned over, his hand instinctively reaching to touch his swollen eye. “It’s not, Potter,” he groaned. He saw Hermione’s eyebrows shoot up and Harry’s eyes widen. “And if you want to spread rumors about me, make sure I’m unconscious first, you prat.”

Draco scanned the room and saw Ron sitting up in bed with his parents at his side. His gaze lingered there for a while too long, to see Mrs. Weasley ruffle her son’s hair and Mr. Weasley hold out a mug of water until Ron could grasp it with both hands. Moonlight shone through the window, so he must have only been on the floor a few minutes. Ginny and the dark haired witch were nowhere to be seen. He pulled himself up to a sitting position and crossed his arms, contemplating what to do next, as Harry and Hermione crossed the room to visit Ron’s side.

His mind spun as he tried to think of a logical explanation for the incident. Draco knew that he had brewed a good potion that couldn’t poison Ron, but Hermione and Harry, amongst others, were beyond skeptical. They looked at him for a moment from the bedside and then put their heads together. They were obviously talking about him and Draco began to pick at the scabs on his arm.

At Hogwarts, all he wanted was for people to know his name, but here, all he wanted was for people to shut up.

After a good minute and a half and a lot of convincing from Ron, the Weasley parents left the room. Draco brought himself to stand but Harry moved in on him quickly. “Don’t say a word and sit down. I will be back.”

He stormed out of the room and Hermione sat down on Ron’s bed, facing Draco. She held Ron’s hand and made circular motions on his palm with her thumb. She seemed to be nervous, too.

“He’s kicking me out, isn’t he?”

Hermione glanced to Ron and then back at him. “Not necessarily,” she paused, then continued, “but you’re not getting off scot-free if that is what you are implying.”

The early morning sky began to fill the room with an uncomfortable grey light. Up until this point, he had been so careful, yet he knew something like this would happen. His mind was still fuzzy from being knocked out, but details were beginning to come back to him. He had given them small glasses of the potion from the cauldron by the window and he hadn’t taken it himself since it had been late.

Someone had to have framed him. And that someone wanted him dead.

Hermione must have seen this realization flash on Draco’s face because she took her hand off of Ron’s and gave him a reassuring nod before meeting Harry outside the door. Draco watched as she left, his heart rate increasing exponentially.

For the first time in his life, he was afraid and ashamed of being alone in a room with Ron Weasley. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Ron’s eyes so he picked at a thread pull in his dark slacks. Ron backed up against the wall in his bed, unsure of whether or not to be afraid of Draco. The two sat like this for a few minutes, maybe weeks.

Then Hermione entered the room and gestured for Malfoy to follow her.

“We need to talk.”

————————————

Draco found himself following Hermione down the hallway and down a few flights of stairs. He had to grip onto the railing to prevent himself from falling, from exhaustion or pain he could not tell.

At last they reached a door that seemed to glow gold from within, maybe two floors from the lowest. He could hear conversation beyond its deep blue exterior and his mouth became dry, all of the moisture draining to his palms. He knew he would be looked at like a zoo animal and that he was walking into his own cage, but he had to see what was on the other side.

He had to meet his fate.

When the two entered, the inhabitants of the room all turned their heads. He recognized Luna and Neville, Ginny and the dark-haired witch, Harry, and George.

He would have taken in the strange, long table at which they all sat, facing him, or the way that the room seemed to blaze with the early morning sun, or the dozens of dark artifacts that were contained in the surrounding glass cabinets, but that last face was all too familiar.

It was crying and screaming and smoke. It was structural support falling behind him, heat and flames, the last bit of laughter playing on lips, and flashes of green light.

Draco gripped onto the chair facing the rest of the people in the room in hopes of grounding himself, and the next thing he knew, the contents of his stomach were on the floor and pain coursed throughout his healing cuts as he gripped the arms of the chair.

He took a few deep breaths and remembered to focus on the beating of his heart before glancing over at Hermione, who charmed the vomit off the floor without batting an eyelash and met his eyes for a brief moment before hurrying to her seat.

Draco laughed, something cold and airy, his head falling to his hand, as the rest of the wizards looked at each other in confusion. “What is this, peer jury?”

Harry looked him up and down. “Why did you poison Ron, Malfoy?”

Before he could speak, the dark-haired witch spoke up. “Harry, he clearly isn’t in the right state to go through a trial.”

“He was literally just sick all over the floor. I agree with Astoria, I think we should wait.” Hermione added, though Harry was not too pleased.

“He can handle it. In fact, isn’t nausea a side effect of the antidote to common poisons?”

“Yes,” Draco started, “but if you’re so worried about me poisoning Ron, why would I poison myself?”

Harry glanced at Neville, who shrugged. “To test how well it worked? Why else?”

“I don’t know, maybe I did it to kill myself.” Draco laughed at the horrified looks on the faces of his peers. “Come on, Potter, I’m not that dense.”

There was a pause. He needed calming draught, or something to ease his anxiety and pulsing arm. Up until he had arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place, his greatest fear was being found by the Death Eaters. Now, his greatest fear was leaving, and there was a good chance he would be leaving soon.

“Well, say you _didn’t_ poison the potion. Who did?” George asked him.

His memories seemed misty, but pieces were now becoming clearer. “Once I finished brewing it, I set my cauldron on the windowsill to cool, and then went to Ron and Harry’s room.”

“So you gave Ron the potion out of your cauldron after you left it on the windowsill?” Hermione asked.

“Yes.”

“And how did you know what was wrong with Ron so quickly? How did you make it to our room in time?” Harry demanded, setting his elbows up on the table.

Draco hesitated and he knew they noticed. “I’m a light sleeper and happened to hear you yelling.” He paused again. Now was the time to be honest, to come clean, but he couldn’t get the words to come out of his mouth. At last, he admitted, “That poison was the same one I used on Katie Bell.”

The room fell silent. A clock by the door ticked periodically, but the discomfort was almost intangible.

“And the same you used on Ron the first time?” asked Harry.

Draco nodded.

The witch called Astoria turned to Ginny and they whispered to each other, and Neville and George began speaking back and forth through written messages on an enchanted piece of parchment. Harry broke the silence first. “There is no other logical explanation for this incident other than you poisoning Ron.”

“Unless, of course,” countered Hermione, “there is someone else who knows how to create that kind of poison. Is there?”

His eyes ran across all of the members of the Order that sat in front of him. Nobody here truly believed him, yet he wasn’t even sure he believed himself. A small part of him wished that he _had_ been the one to poison Ron because the truth would never have to be spoken aloud. A truth that ran like ice through his veins, that caused his skin to turn sallow, his heart to stop beating.

Miraculously, he heard himself speak.

“Only two others know the recipe: the dark lord and my father.”


	7. An Uncomfortable Dinner

Draco had been laying in bed in a fetal position with his shoes on for most of the afternoon when his door swung open without warning. It was Luna, and she seemed to emanate light, her long, pale hair shimmering in the setting sun like fire on metal.

She stood in the doorway for a split second and then moved to the window, examining the scenery outside with her hands on the windowsill. Then, she turned to Draco, who had barely moved since she entered. “I believe you, you know.”

Draco sat up. “You do?”

She nodded and sat down on the edge of his bed. Draco pulled his knees to his chest so that she had enough room and Luna played with the crescent moon that hung from a long chain around her neck. Her presence was so comforting that for a moment, he almost forgot where he was and why he was there, but when she spoke, he was pulled back to reality. “They all do, too. That’s why you are still here.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair and nodded, pressing his forehead to his knees. It was hard for him to believe. He knew that Harry would never truly forgive him for what he had done. Ron wouldn’t believe him, either, had he been on the committee that listened to his story today. There was something more to this, something that Luna wasn’t telling him. “Why did you _really_ come to see me?”

“Two reasons,” Luna said, her eyes falling to his trunk and then back to him. “First, the members of the Order wanted to check on you because you were sick this morning and I offered to. Second,” she paused, “because they need you to come to dinner and to take your things with you.”

“How much trouble am I in?”

Luna sighed, running her hand over the foot of his bed. “Quite a bit,” she admitted, and when Draco’s eyes widened, she added, “but it’s nothing we can’t fix.”

His head still hurt and this morning’s “trial” left him as empty as a suit of armor. Draco began picking up his things and stuffing them into his trunk when he saw the cauldron in the corner of the room, where he had left it after the incident. Luna noticed, and with a flick of her wand, the cauldron was transfigured into a small toy dragon the size of his palm. She flitted to where the dragon sat and picked it up, running her thumb over its shiny, maroon-colored scales.

Draco watched her every move and at last, she looked up to him, a trace of a smile on her glimmering face. “You know, I practiced this spell endlessly after the war to perfect it, and that was my first time doing it for someone else.” The small dragon puffed a cloud of smoke and then began gnawing on Luna’s finger.

“You did really well,” he paused for a moment. “Luna, why are you helping me?”

Luna’s dragon curled up in her palm and wrapped its tail around itself like a cat. For a second, he thought she wouldn’t answer him but at last, she spoke.

“At the manor, you fed and checked on me. You at least deserve the same.”

————————————

Draco and Luna stepped across the threshold into the dining room and were greeted by most, if not all, of the inhabitants of 12 Grimmauld Place.

His first instinct was to turn back around, trunk in hand, and leave the house, never to be seen again. Unfortunately, he knew of the danger he had put himself in _and_ that he needed help, neither of which would be fixed by him running away.

So he met Neville, three Weasley children (not including Ron) and their parents, Hermione, Astoria and another dark-haired girl, two smaller boys and their parents, Shacklebolt, Harry, and a few others with a bit of hesitation. Some stood and some sat, while others were bringing ceramic pots filled with steaming casseroles or bowls of lightly dressed salad to the table, yet everyone’s eyes were on him.

His face must have fallen because Luna grabbed his arm and led him to a seat in the middle of the dining room table, across from Harry, careful to get him off his feet. The old house elf brought his trunk out to the entryway as the members settled down into their seats, keeping track of Draco in their periphery as they served themselves dinner.

The dining room had tall ceilings and an open cabinet that covered the length of a whole wall, containing fine china and a few cobwebs. There were chandelier-like fixtures that hung down over the table and filled the room with a warm, buttery light. All of the dark wood furniture gleamed like it had been polished yesterday and the long table had been set with silverware and plates that were as good as new.

Despite the room’s inviting nature, he felt as if he were walking into his own funeral. But he couldn’t imagine anyone here in attendance.

“Nice of you to come to dinner, Mr. Malfoy,” said Mrs. Weasley as she passed a basket of rolls down the table from her spot at the head of it, “especially since you’ve been here for over a week and have successfully avoided us.”

He thought of Mrs. Weasley like a cat. At times, she could be a warm, caring companion but to outsiders and anyone who touched her the wrong way, they could become her next prey. He knew that she was watching him coward in the corner, claws extended, trying to make him squirm, but instead he said nothing and passed the basket of rolls to Luna on his right, much to the dismay of the dinner attendants.

Malfoy wasn’t hungry, so he passed up the dishes that came across him. After everyone was served, Astoria, who sat on his left, recognized that he had no food on his plate and scooped some casserole onto his plate below the table. His eyes met hers and for a moment, all was well.

“So,” Harry began, everyone’s focus shifting to him, “we know of two things at the moment: the remaining Death Eaters know of our location and that they have gotten past our protection.” There was murmuring from the right side of the table, where most of the adults sat. Draco shivered in his seat and swallowed a spoonful of casserole, trying to ignore its warmth in his empty stomach.

Hermione continued. “Our council has concluded that Mr. Malfoy _did not_ poison Ron, and it had to have been someone who knew the same recipe. In other words, Lucius Malfoy was able to get past our protections on this house, with the end goal of poisoning his son.”

The murmuring got louder, to the point where it burbled underneath the rest of the room like lava beneath the Earth’s crust. Draco tried to drown out the sound but singular voices, like George’s (“ _Poison his son?_ Weren’t the two best mates?”) or Shacklebolt’s (“How could Malfoy have gotten past _this_?”) sprayed up through the cracks, singeing his skin and boiling in his veins.

A million buzzing blowflies surrounded Draco. The sound of taunting could never stop. It was eternal, like crackling wooden ceilings or falling bricks or his mother’s cry in the midst of chaos. The pressure amounted to the point where Draco cried, “ _Enough.”_

He held the home’s attention in his hand.

The bite of casserole he swallowed rose up in his throat and he couldn’t bring himself to speak again. A dozen pairs of eyes were on him. His neck began to warm up and he clutched onto the the underside of his chair. Ginny saved him at last. “So then why are we allowing him to stay if he’s putting us all in danger?”

A beat passed. “The Order has decided Malfoy’s fate,” Harry said, staring across the table at Draco with an expression on his face most similar to pity. If he had to go back to the streets, he didn’t know what he would do.

He hadn’t known that this was an option, but now that it was available, he couldn’t stand to lose it. Even the smallest taste of warmth and security was lethal, like the first shot of heroin after months of being clean.

If _this_ was his high, he didn’t want to know the extent of his low.

Hermione pursed her lips and looked to Arthur, who nodded with reassurance. “Malfoy can stay here, but only if he helps us catch the last known Death Eaters surviving under the law that have not been accounted for.”

The room was silent. At last, Draco mumbled, “ _My parents?_ ”


	8. A Dream About Dragons

Moonlight fell across Draco’s face as he sat up in bed, reading a frayed piece of parchment by the light of his wand.

The ink on the side of the scratchy paper was smudged and covered in partial thumbprints. The top corner rippled and threatened to crumble away after his textbook had gotten into the rain a few weeks ago. And even though he knew the lines by heart, he still mulled over each word as if he were reading the letter for the first time.

He flipped over the parchment to see a printed, moving picture on the other side: a small bear holding a watering can over a single flower, which grew to a good size while two other flowers, outside of the water, shriveled up and turned brown.

He lost track of time going over his mother’s words and when there was a knock at the door, he didn’t realize how late it truly was.

“Come in.”

The dark-haired witch, Astoria, entered Draco’s room with a tray. In a flurry, he tucked the parchment back into his potions textbook and threw it into his trunk. Astoria met his eyes, as if testing the waters, and set the tray at the end of his bed.

“I saw you didn’t eat anything at dinner,” she paused. “I thought you might be hungry.”

On the tray was a small ceramic bowl of steaming soup, two warm rolls, and a plate of shepard’s pie. “You did this for _me_?”

She shrugged, a bit of color rising to her face in the pale light. “My sister Daphne is the same way.”

He grabbed a roll and picked it apart in silence. “You know,” Astoria admitted, her gaze falling to her lap, “I think they are wrong about you.”

Draco’s head shot up and his tongue turned to stone. Of all of the things he had heard in his life, nobody had ever told him that. He was surrounded by people who believed him to be one-dimensional, a known quantity. He would always be an ignorant brat, forever marked by the choices he made while trying to embody his father. Unchanging. Permanently tainted.

He could only muster a simple, “Why?”

Astoria spun a ring around her finger and looked up to the ceiling. The ring was old and made of yellow gold. It contained a small, green stone in the center. Draco could see a carving in its side, possibly initials, which made it appear to be a family ring. She rubbed her thumb over the stone as she began.

“I’m not sure how to phrase it without sounding ignorant, but,” she paused, “I understand what it is like to be at war with your family. I see it in you: in the way you get sick when you think about the past, in the way you have stopped eating, in the way you carry yourself. It is hard to understand but I do.”

There was another period of silence before she stood and made to leave the room. “They don’t understand how hard it is to change or to deviate. It’s taxing.”

All Draco could do was nod at her. He wasn’t used to her empathy or the way she seemed to make the room seem calmer, more refined, and more at peace. Her presence refreshed him like a splash of cool water. For once, he didn’t care what it looked like on the outside: he needed to see her more.

He thought she would leave, but she stayed around for a moment too long to be a coincidence before whispering, “and if you need anything, come find me. Being at war with your family is being at war with yourself.”

————————————

He sat on the scratched wooden floor of a small, cream-colored cottage, surrounded by shelves of books. He could hear waves lapping against the shore outside of the open window, the sheer curtains shimmering almost imperceptibly in the breeze. He held in his hands a small, brass dragon, stolen from the desk in the corner of the room.

Footsteps rushed up the staircase outside. Narcissa threw back the door and the tension between her eyes melted as she saw her son playing alone in the den. “ _We can’t have this one,”_ she chided gently, kneeling to the ground and taking the brass dragon from him.

He was silent as she moved to the window, turning the dragon over in her hands. Her shoulders were strung up towards her neck and she couldn’t take her eyes off the sea.

Then, she turned to him and lifted him into her arms, placing the dragon back on its desk. “ _Do you know why you are called_ Draco _?_ ”

He could feel himself shaking his head, her heart rate increasing. The waves pulsed higher and stronger.

“ _Draco means_ dragon _, and dragons are protectors. I can only hope that when the time comes,”_ she admitted, mostly to herself, “ _you will be able to protect yourself._ ”

All was quiet as the two stood there for a long while, guarding the upstairs den with careful ambition. The den, the epitome of quiet afternoons spent reading beside his father as he did his paperwork, the room which held all of his toys in a dense wooden box beneath one of the bookshelves, the room which was his escape.

He wasn’t sure how he could be watching his own young memories, but somehow, he could feel it all the same.

Draco’s mother’s arms tightened around him like snakes, the moment of solitude long passed, her heart thumping as she pressed his face into her shoulder and set him down in a flurry. He could make out a dark figure that had appeared on the beach, moving with heightened speed toward the front door beneath the den.

He and his mother looked at each other and he recognized fear on her face. Then, she was gone, the sound of the waves filling her absence for a moment before sound erupted.

For the first time, the deep, bellowing laughter that he thought he had heard downstairs turned into screams.

Draco awoke in a cold sweat, the streetlights outside 12 Grimmauld Place glittering against the walls, tension in his chest.

He knew where to find his parents.


End file.
